We are gradually moving away from defining people by their sexual preferences. That’s wonderful, right? We really have no reason to care about another person’s preference. Yet, when I take personal inventory in the sense of, “How do I feel about …?,” I do find some interesting results.

For example, if the woman I’m dating tells me she’s into women, I’m not bothered; heck, I’m downright gleeful, as long as she’s also into me. I admire this woman. She has twice as many options as I do. Granted, if she has taken on a female lover because of a sexual inadequacy on my part, that’s disturbing. I’d want to fix that shit … yesterday. But, if she occasionally enjoys a female touch, I understand and concur whole-bonerly.

When I spin this arrangement, things become curious. I bet my woman would not be as comfortable if I confessed to liking the occasional sausage in my sexual diet. Why? Is it an internal thing? Is it because she’s worried about my sausage being dirty places? Fine. What if I’m a bottom-only boy? Would she approve? Perhaps. I suppose she could strap one on and deliver the goods. Still, she almost certainly won’t be tickled over the concept.

Aside from having twice the choice in partners, the other perceived benefit to bi-sexuality is the possibility of a threesome. Yes, I realize that is possible with straight people, but I’m not referring to what I call shish kabobbing. The more enjoyable threesome (never had one, piss me off) would have each of the three players involved with the other two. A friend insists they don’t work because somebody gets more attention, causing jealousy.

So, as legendary as it would be for Mr. Straight to be with two bisexual ladies, I’m predicting it would be a bit ew-y if it were a straight woman with two bi males. Look, I know I’m a naive rookie in this arena. Am I off base? I think not.

I just find the whole sex thing interesting. The best part is where the line is drawn, because it’s unique for each of us. The worst part is I think about this shit all day, and don’t get my goddamn laundry folded before it wrinkles.

One more rant.

How would you feel, ladies, if you came home to find your man having sex with the neighbor’s 18-year-old daughter and her friend? Shitty, right? Oh, he’s definitely getting the boot. Fine. What if he’s masturbating while spying on those two making a lick soufflé? A serious offense, no doubt, but possibly not terminal. What if you catch him in the shower backing into a suction cupped dildo while screwing a fleshlight? (Sort of a threesome.) That’s some prime kinkery right there, but I’m not sure you’d shut him down. Finally, what if you caught him judging a two-headed dildo tug of war? He’s not involved in the competition. He’s just watching carefully to see which side of the bed the center flag crosses. Oh, and he’s wearing zebra stripes and has one of those fancy ring whistles. I see you wrinkling your nose. Whatever.

Can we all agree to be less uptight about this? It’s just a little pleasure between friends—scratching an itch for a buddy, so to speak. Like after a hot shower, heavy bong hit, or Cadillac margarita, we’re all happier after an orgasm. How we get there is nobody’s business.

When sugary sweetness straddles a bar stool next to me, I often break the ice with, “How’s your love life?” Note that I’m careful to do some reconnaissance before deploying that line, and having it answered by an angry husband. People rarely admit to having a shitty relationship. It’s a flaw–a sign of poor decision-making skills. But I know better, so I pry further. Eventually, I get the answer I expect.

“I just don’t understand men.”

“Ah, well, I’m here to help. What would you like to know?”

“Can a man ever be loyal?”

“Which man?”

“Any man.”

“Certainly. Your question, though, is better expressed as, ‘Can a man remain loyal as long as I’m interested in him.'”

“No. Most guys can’t resist other women, even when all is fine with their current relationships.”

“Sure, we can. It all depends on how sexually exhausted you keep us.”

“Sex, sex, sex. Is that really all men think about all day?”

“Yep.”

*sigh*

“Sometimes we think about sports, beer, cars, and food, but mostly sex in any combination therewith. Come on, admit it. You think about sex, too … and shopping.”

“Sure, but not all the time.”

“We can’t help it. If I see partial boob, I want to see the rest. If I see the entire boob, I want to touch it. If I touch a boob, I want to kiss it, and the one next to it. And, so on.”

“Sad.”

“Sad? Really? Think about it. If you were to pop a boob out of that lovely top, and my reaction was, ‘Nice gland. Barkeep, may I have a Greyhound,’ you’d be devastated.”

“I wouldn’t do that.”

“Me neither.”

“What would you do?”

“A happy dance. I perfected it Christmas of sixty-six when I received my first Big Wheel.”

“What’s a Big Wheel?”

“That’s not important. Look, if a fit gentleman exposed a bit of his chiseled abdomen, you’d want to see more.”

“Yes, but not necessarily his penis … yet. And, if he did expose himself, I wouldn’t want to touch it … probably wouldn’t. I certainly wouldn’t want to kiss it. I mean, after we dated a while, maybe. But, not right away.”

“Ah, well you bring up an interesting topic. May I ask you a question about women?”

“I don’t think I got a straight answer from you about men, but go ahead.”

“How is a guy supposed to know what to do during a blow job?”

“Jesus.”

“I try to avoid controversial topics at the bar. No religion or politics from me. No, siree.”

“Fine. OK. How about, just sit back and enjoy it? What do you usually think about?”

“I’m glad you asked. First, I think, YAY! Then, I consider whether this blow job is intended as warmup–penis inflation, so to speak–or, am I supposed to ejaculate?”

“My god.”

“It’s a potentially hazardous situation, my dear. Not that my ejaculate is toxic. I mean, if she wants me to finish, but I don’t think she does, I’ll spend most of the time creating mental diversions. If she doesn’t want to finish, but I do, I’ll see the disappointment in her glazed face.”

“Lovely. So, next time, why don’t you ask?”

“Awkward, but I’ll try. See? Being a man is so difficult. If you’re on the receiving end of oral pleasure, you can come all you want. No need to distract yourself. You have it easy.”

I met a self-proclaimed career woman last night. She educated me on the fine art of juggling men without falling in love with any of them. I was fascinated. It was one of the rare times when sweet femininity was obscured by evil male traits.

“I’m concentrating on my career. That’s what’s important to me right now. I don’t have time for love.”

“So, you’re not dating?”

“I’m dating. Met two different guys last week, and I have an arrangement with a third.”

“Arrangement? He walks your dog while you’re away?”

“No, silly. Sex. No strings attached.”

“Wow, that sure beats pet-sitting.”

“I know! This way I don’t have a needy guy distracting me. I have a great opportunity at work, which doesn’t come around that often for someone my age. I need to nail it, then I can consider actually dating someone.”

“Ah. So, these guys just deliver orgasms and leave?”

“Sometimes. In fact, I gave one a heads-up that I was coming here tonight, so it isn’t awkward if we run into each other.”

“Why would it be awkward? Sounds to me like it would be convenient.”

“What if I’m here with another guy? I wouldn’t want him to feel weird.”

“Isn’t that the point of the arrangement: We’re not allowed to feel weird about anything non-sexual?”

“We?”

“Ugh. He and you. I don’t feel weird about much other than stepping barefoot in cat puke.”

“Interesting. I mean, if one of us is out, and the other is on a date at the same place, it can be weird. I really wouldn’t give a shit, but he might.”

“So, he likes you.”

“Maybe.”

“What about the other two guys? Don’t they like you?”

“Well, I haven’t been able to hook up with the one yet. Our schedules are off kilter.”

“And, I bet that’s the guy you’re most anxious to hook up with.”

“Maybe.”

“All right. To summarize, you want to climb the corporate ladder, and enjoy a little penetration on the side, in the way that some would enjoy going to a movie–you want to be entertained for a few hours, and left to return home without a male barnacle.”

Living near the coast in San Diego is wonderful, but the marine layer often chases me east for vitamin D and vodka. A favorite destination of mine is Palm Springs. If you’ve never been, you should visit. In the summer, temperatures approach 120 degrees. What’s better than blazing sun, ice cold beer, cool misting systems, and a dipping pool? Strawberries and Cool Whip, perhaps–only if they are fed to me by a buxom young lady.

Another fine thing about the weather is it remains warm at night. It’s fun to stroll around town, admiring the packs of bachelorette parties. I always offer three words of advice, “Don’t do it.” Occasionally, I’ll break out my Bugs Bunny voice and say, “You’ll be SOR-ry.” People don’t appreciate Looney Tunes nor my marriage aversion, for that matter.

Palm Springs is also a popular destination for gay men. In fact, my favorite restaurant is a haven. These men usually have fine-tuned straight-dar, and realize I prefer pussy. Still, I seem to present a challenge. Much as I’m not offended if the man next to me likes meatloaf, I don’t mind if he likes meat injections.

“Look, I know you’re not gay, but I’m still going to hit on you. You have lovely eyes.”

“Nope. Again, sorry. You’re a handsome fellow. I’m sure you’ll have no problem finding a young man to enjoy.”

“What if I want to enjoy you?”

“Wouldn’t you agree it’s more fun when both parties enjoy it?”

“Oh, you’ll enjoy it. I’m very good.”

We continue our discussion–absolutely blocking me from vagina, which was scarce to begin with. He has a partner he’s been with for thirty years. They rarely have sex any more, sleep in separate beds, and go have their little trysts, which are known but never discussed.

Relationship paths are remarkably similar, regardless of the types of people involved.

He spoke about his first love: the high school football star, who had to hide his sexuality. It was the stuff Lifetime movies are made from. (OK, maybe Bravo!) Then, we got into the typical destination for most discussions involving me.

“So, why are you single, Phil?”

“You say that as if there’s something wrong with being single.”

“Well, don’t you want someone to love and take care of you as you get older?”

“I love and take care of me.”

“Ah, but we all need more.”

“There’s the difference: While I want more, I certainly don’t need it. Neediness is unattractive. You have someone you love, yet you sleep alone and you’re out here trying to turn me like a vampire.”

“I do love my man. I have a bird I love, too.”

“What do you love about them?”

“I love being able to take care of them, as well as the interaction.”

“So, love to you is not having someone taking care of you; it’s having someone to take care of.”

“I guess so.”

“There’s another reason why we get along, but won’t be doing so nakedly: We’re both nurturers, not nurturees. We relate. But, we each require a little project/person to make happy in order for us to be happy. As long as that person shows appreciation, love flourishes.”

There, it’s out. Gosh, I feel such relief already. You have no idea how hard it is to hide my love for boobs and vagina. I think of all the years I spent grooming myself, wearing cologne, listening to house music, and forcing myself to eat sausage. I, sadly, did it all to avoid awkward situations at the workplace and in social events. I consider myself a modern day Jack Tripper. Did you know, Jack was a San Diego native? How fascinating! OK, I’m not a San Diego native, but I live here now and, did I mention how much I love bulbous woman ass?

I hope you appreciate this difficult thing I do–writing through my tears.

Don’t worry, there was no childhood trauma that sent me to the pink side. I was born a pussy lover. Sure, I didn’t realize it until a third grade substitute teacher, Ms. Rizzo, lectured about multiplication tables, all while sporting an epic camel toe. (I believe that back in 1970 it was called a “vertical smile.” Camel toes are children of the 2010s.)

“OK, who knows what six times nine is? Phil?”

“Panty hamster.”

“What?! You go stand in the corner and think about what you said.”

“I can’t. I’m sporting wood, and if I think about it much longer, I might make cumsies in my slacks.”

I guess the writing was on the chalkboard.

Believe me, I tried to like cock. I stared at a few mushroom caps in the locker room, but they only made me crave salisbury steak. I didn’t want to touch one, let alone sit on or swallow one. Ew. Even the butt thermometer creeped me out. If I were gay, I would have frequently faked a fever, and asked our handsome family doctor to check my temperature again, and again, and again, perhaps while stroking my Dutch-Boy doo, and singing Madonna’s “Crazy For You.”

*sigh*

It wasn’t meant to be.

Then, I discovered tits. Honestly, I wanted to love Tom Selleck’s hairy pecs. I distinctly recall watching Magnum P.I. while touching myself. I remained limp as warm saltwater taffy. Then came I Dream of Jeannie (and yours truly, all over my belly). Jeannie’s lovely lumps of libation made me hard as calculus. I so wanted to shrink myself, climb into that bottle, and shesh kebab that annoying wink/tic right out of her.

All the social pressure I was feeling, made me question my desires as recently as last year during the Summer Olympics. I was glued to the TV while watching the men’s swimming events. I even lubed up both fists and stroked along with Ryan Lochte. No dice. At one point, my penis tried to impact itself in my abdomen. Thankfully, women’s beach volleyball came on, and all was well.

So, I’ll not fight my heterosexual tendencies any longer. Judge ye not. Accept me for who I am: a connoisseur of love tacos, not burritos.